Which in fuccefs oft difinherits,
For fpurious causes, nobleft merits.
Great actions are not always true fons
Of great and mighty resolutions,
Nor do the bold'st attempts bring forth
Events ftill equal to their worth:
But fometimes fail, and in their stead
Fortune and cowardice fucceed.
Yet we have no great cause to doubt,
Our actions still have born us out :
Which, though they're known to be so ample,
We need not copy from example;
We're not the only perfons durft
Attempt this province, nor the first.
In northern clime a val'rous knight
Did whilom kill his bear in fight,
And wound a fiddler: we have both
Of these the objects of our wroth,
And equal fame and glory from
Th' attempt of victory to come.
'Tis fung, there is a valiant Mamaluke
In foreign land, y'clep'd-
To whom we have been oft compar'd
For perfon, parts, address, and beard;
Both equally reputed stout,
And in the fame cause both have fought;
He oft in fuch attempts as these
Came off with glory and fuccefs;
Nor will we fail in th'execution,
For want of equal resolution.
Honour is like a widow, won,
With brifk attempt and putting on,
With ent'ring manfully, and urging,
Not flow approaches, like a virgin.
This faid, as yerft the Phrygian knight,
So ours, with rufty steel did fmite
His Trojan horse, and just as much
He mended pace upon the touch;
But from his empty ftomach groan'd
Just as that hollow beaft did found,
And angry anfwer'd from behind,
With brandish'd tail and blast of wind.
So have I feen, with armed heel,
A wight beftride a common-weal:
While ftill the more he kick'd and fpurr'd,
The lefs the fullen jade has stirr'd.
The catalogue and character
Of th'enemies beft men of war:
Whom in a bold harangue, the knight
Defies, and challenges to fight:
H'encounters Talgol, routs the bear,
And takes the fiddler prifoner;
Conveys him to enchanted castle,
There shuts him faft in wooden baftile.
HERE was an antient fage philofopher,
That had read Alexander Rofs over;
And fwore the world, as he could prove,
Was made of fighting and of love:
Juft fo romances are, for what else
Is in them all, but love and battles?
O'th'first of thefe we've no great matter
To treat of, but a world o'th'latter:
In which to do the injur'd right,
We mean, in what concerns just fight,
Certes our authors are to blame,
For to make fome well-founding name
A pattern, fit for modern knights
To copy out in frays and fights,
(Like those that a whole street do raze,
To build a palace in the place,)
They never care how many others
They kill, without regard of mothers,
Or wives or children, fo they can
Make up fome fierce dead-doing man,
Compos'd of many ingredient valours,
Just like the manhood of nine taylors:
So a wild Tartar, when he spies
A man that's handsome, valiant, wife,
If he can kill him, thinks t'inherit
His wit, his beauty, and his fpirit:
As if just fo much he enjoy'd,
As in another is destroy'd.
For when a giant's flain in fight,
And mow'd o'erth wart, or cleft downright,
It is a heavy cafe, no doubt,
A man fhould have his brains beat out,
Because he's tall, and has large bones;
As men kill beavers for their stones.
But as for our part, we fhall tell
The naked truth of what befel;
And as an equal friend to both
The knight and bear, but more to troth, With neither faction shall take part,
But give to each his due defert;
And never coin a formal lye on't,
To make the knight o'ercome the giant.
This b'ing profefs'd, we hope's enough,
And now go on where we left off.
They rode, but authors having not
Determin'd whether pace or trot,
(This is to fay, whether tollutation,
As they do term't, or fuculation.)
We leave it, and go on, as now
Suppose they did, no matter how:
Yet fome from subtle hints have got
Mysterious light, it was a trot.
But let that pafs; they now begun
To fpur their living engines on.
For as whipp'd tops, and bandy'd balls,
The learned hold, are animals:
So horses they affirm to be
Mere engines made by geometry;
And were invented first from engines,
As Indian Britons were from penguins.
So let them be: as I was faying,
They their live engines ply'd, not staying
Untill they reach'd the fatal champain,
Which th' enemy did then encamp on :
The dire Pharfalian plain, where battle
Was to be wag'd 'twixt puissant cattle,
And fierce auxiliary men,
That came to aid their brethren;
Who now began to take the field,
As knight from ridge of steed beheld.
For as our modern wits behold,
Mounted a pick-back on the old,
Much farther off; much farther he,
Rais'd on his aged beast, could fee:
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